Four Days Later
by simply.kaleidoscope
Summary: As he sips his coffee, a thought slips unbidden into the officer's mind: Asshole could've waited five minutes until my shift was over to kill himself.
1. Day Zero

As he sips his coffee, a thought slips unbidden into the officer's mind: _Asshole could've waited five minutes until my shift was over to kill himself._ He has the good grace to feel mildly guilty, but the feeling was assuaged by the idea of his warm bed at home.

Standing over the scene, there is not a doubt in his mind that this was a suicide. The body has yet to be moved, so one could still see where the man had settled on his motel bed, prepped his gun, and blown his goddamn head off. He grimaces. The officer hates these needlessly gory open-close cases. They weren't paying him nearly enough to come in at two in the morning to look at chucks of brain and a locked door to say, "No forced entry. Suicide." He knows he's supposed to treat every case as a possible homicide, but he doesn't see any other option for this one. His partner walks in from the hallway with a grim expression.

"I need you to talk to the witness," she says, which translates into, "I can't handle the hysterics." Because he's always been the better one with talking when they're both exhausted, he nods and gestures to the man slumped across the bed.

"We're going to need a coroner to look at him." When his partner heads out of the room to find the personnel for that task, he follows her to find a short brunette wailing into her hands. He struggles not to roll his eyes at the receptionist of the hotel. She had met the victim for five minutes an hour ago and she's crying like he was a long-lost brother. He sits in a folding chair opposite hers and waits patiently. Or, at the very least, he tries to have the appearance of someone who is waiting patiently. When she chokes out a watery apology, he figures it's time to proceed.

"It's okay. I understand," he tells her soothingly, "I just need you to tell me what happened." She sniffles and it sounds disgusting and snotty before she opens her mouth to speak.

"I don't usually work this shift. My friend—Kelsey, Kelsey McMurphy, we went to high school together—she met this guy and she really, really wanted to go on this date. And it's been _so long_ since she met anyone and she always covers for me, so I said sure, I'd take her shift for her." She pauses to wipe away a fresh wave of tears from her puffy eyes while the officer silently curses her babbling.

"I try to avoid working at night usually," she continues, "'Cause all we get this late at night are sketchy, creepy people, and I hate it. There's only so many times a girl can get hit on by someone so high he doesn't even know his name before she gets sick of it. But he—the guy in there—he wasn't… well, he was weird, but not the normal weird, ya know? He was so polite and—"

"What do you mean 'weird'?" He asks, only because he knows he has to.

"Weird," she repeats, as if that makes anything clearer. "He was jittery and flinching at everything and he looked like he'd seen a lot of shi—crap. But honestly—" she lowers her voice "—I thought he was on drugs or somethin'. I mean, we get a lot of that. He had that look. But I never thought. I never dreamed he was gonna—" She bursts out in tears again while he dutifully scribbles everything on his notepad.

"What exactly did he say to you?" He asks when she composes herself.

"Not much. I don't remember details. He asked for a room and I gave him one."

"And you didn't think it was odd that he had no bags with him?"

"_PLENTY _ of people have no bags!" She cries and buries her face into her palms again. The officer realizes that he's collected as much information that is both possible and necessary to obtain, so he thanks the distraught woman and excuses himself to the doorway of the motel room where his partner is hovering. They hesitate in silence for a few moments, pointedly avoiding looking at the body, before he hands her his notepad. She flips through it, appraising his scrawls while he sips the lukewarm liquid in his mug. She returns the notepad and he tucks it in his back pocket.

"There was no form of identification on him," she remarks idly, "Just a cell phone." He swears.

"I don't suppose you've called anyone yet?" He asks and she shakes her head.

"So I'm the lucky bastard, huh?" He says. "Figures." He holds out his hand and she deposits it smoothly into his calloused palm. It's a nice phone. New. But it's clearly seen better days judging by the scuffs and chips in multiple places. He flips it open and struggles to find where recent calls are located. His partner leans over and helpfully leads him through the process.

When they finally make their way to recent calls, the last six calls dialed and the last thirty odd missed have all been from the same person. His finger hovers over the name. He hates this part. It's easy to be annoyed with the receptionist and angry at the man lying dead, even irritated with the people who called him in, but this poor bastard? He's about to ruin his day, maybe even his life. As he presses his thumb against the screen, he selfishly hopes the person on the other end doesn't cry.

The phone rings once, twice and there's a tick that makes the officers heart leap to his throat, but it turns out to be the snapping of his partners gum. He shoots her a look and she shrugs unapologetically as he turns his back to her so he can face the wall and listen to it ring over and over. Abruptly the ringing ceases and a pre-recorded voice greets him.

"Thank God," the officer breathes.

"…so you know what to do," the recording responds flippantly. The officer snaps the phone shut.

"No answer?" His partner asks. He shakes his head. Let that poor man have a good night's rest before he has to wake and find someone he knew—and cared about if the number of times he called him was any indication—was gone. He'd need that sleep to deal with that all in the morning.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the phone vibrated in his hand.

"You have to answer that," she informs him.

"I know," he snaps, "Shit." He opens the phone and puts it up to his ear. "Hel—"

"Sammy?" The voice is gruff and terse and the officer's heart drops.

"This is Officer—"

"I honestly don't give a shit. Where are you?" The tone of his voice hasn't changed at all, despite the fact that a police officer just answered his friend's phone.

"What?" There's a noise of frustration on the other side.

"Where. Are. You. City, state, road name, _c'mon_ man. It's not that tough of a question!"

It's a strange request to say the least and he's startled enough that he only manages, "Days Inn, outside of Detroit, Michigan." The man on the other end lets out a long and particularly creative oath. Then the phone clicks off as he hangs up, but not before the officer hears something that sounds like Cat or Cap or Cas. He lowers the phone slowly.

"What was that about?" She asks. He lifts his arms in the universal "hell if I know" gesture. She tsks quietly and says, "We'll just have to call someone else. I can do it." She extends her hand and he gladly hands it over. After she glances over her shoulder at the body, she continues, "Maybe in the hall?" He lets out a terse chuckle and they duck under the police tape and into the hallway.

They are both trained professionals, but not quite trained enough to detect the soft fluttering of fabric down the hall. This is not by any fault of their own: only the most fine-tuned ear could hear it, and of those, there are maybe a dozen people worldwide who actually recognize what that sound means. However, the both know well the sound of thundering feet down the hallway.

The coffee mug is dropped on the floor and the phone tucked into a pocket in an instant and two sets of hands reach for their holsters. Two men careen around the corner, wild-eyed. When they see the two officers, they stop. The four stand staring at each other.

"Who are you?" The partner asks just as the taller man—the one without a trench coat—says, "Where's Sam?" The question feels like a punch in the gut to the officer. _This _is the man on the phone. He doesn't know how he got here so quickly, but he has no doubt that the man standing opposite him clenching and unclenching his fists was on the opposite end of that call. He takes a step forward and holds up a pacifying hand.

"Sir, I need you to calm down," he says, "And then we can—" The man jerks forward and the man in the trench coat places a restraining hand on his shoulder. For all his years dealing with criminals, all his training, the officer is _scared_. This man could and would kill him, he realizes with chilling clarity, and he could do nothing to stop him.

"I will _calm down_ when someone tells me where Sammy is," he growls and the officer doesn't mean to, but his eyes flicker towards the door. In two long strides, the man is at the door and ripping through the tape. His partner complains loudly about that being a crime scene and makes a move to stop him, but the trench coat man grabs her wrist and stops her from following. From the angle he's standing at, the officer can see, he can still see the man stop in the doorway and put his hand over his mouth and let out a moan that will haunt the officer until the day he dies.

"Oh Sammy," he says, "Oh Sammy, Sammy, no." He walks over the threshold, and the officer follows. The trench coat man looks at him warily, but he doesn't stop him. The man walks over to the bed where "Sammy" is laying and looks at him with anguish in his eyes. He leans forward and brushes his long hair out of his eyes. When he pulls his hand away, it's red and sticky and he stares at it for a long time. Then he closes his eyes.

When he reopens his eyes, he looks weary.

The officer surprises himself with that observation. After all, who looks tired standing over a body? But standing there, looking at his dead friend—_brother, look at them, they're brothers_, he thinks—the slouch in his shoulders, the set of the jaw, the look in his eyes just screams weary.

"How many times," he says, and the officer was right, he sounds _exasperated_, "How many times do I have to bring you back, Sammy, before you finally understand I'm not going to let you go?"

"Dean," trench coat man says from the doorway. The man, Dean, looks at him with an unfathomable expression.

"Do you see what Sam did, Cas?" He asks, "He went and got himself killed again. Now we've got to save his ass all over again."

"Dean." Dean scrunches his eyes and covers them with his clean hand. He sinks slowly to his knees, and leans his elbow on the bed so he's looking over Sam. The officer can't see his face, but from the angle trench coat is standing at, he apparently he can. He walks over so he's standing above Dean and places his hand on his shoulder.

The officer gets the uncomfortable feeling that he's intruding on something larger than the death of a friend.

"Dean, we need to—"

"Don't," Dean says, "We can talk about this later, Cas, just… just take care of the cop, okay?" Before he can register this statement, trench coat man is directly in front of him, his palm outstretched.

"I'm sorry, but it's time for you to rest now," he says, in that strange gravelly voice and there is a flash of light.

The officer wakes up in his warm bed at home, feeling as though he has just had the worst nightmare.


	2. Seven Days Earlier

_Seven Days Earlier_

There is a sharp inhale of breath and Castiel's eyes flutter open. Dean's heart leaps into his chest because this couldn't be happening. Nothing ever works out this well for him. But he can see Cas's eyes darting and the clear rise and fall of his chest. He kneels beside him, sounding far more desperate than he intended.

"Cas?" He says, "Hey. Hey." He grabs one arm and Bobby grabs the other to support him. Dean finds himself murmuring quiet, comforting words, and he's not sure if he's trying to convince himself or Cas that everything is okay.

"That was unpleasant." Dean nearly barks out a laugh, but he holds it in. Because of all the things Cas would say, of course that would be it. It was such a… _Cas_ description of the events that had just occurred. Dean hadn't heard him sounding so much like himself in a long time and he'd missed that part of him more than he had realized. He and Bobby pull him to his feet.

"I'm alive." Cas sounds as bewildered as Dean feels.

"Looks like," Bobby says wryly.

"I'm astonished. Thank you—both of you." Cas switches his gaze from Bobby to Dean, and he's not quite sure how to feel. He wants to be furious—he _is_ furious with him—but right now, the adrenaline is pumping and he's just so glad to see Cas alive that he can't focus on the anger. He scans him over, still waiting for the trick, still half-expecting something to go wrong.

"We were mostly just trying to save the world," Bobby tells him.

"I'm ashamed. I really overreached." Cas ducks his head and _there's _Dean's anger.

"You think?" He asks.

"I'll find some way to redeem myself to you." Cas looks up and his gaze is so intense that the tirade he was preparing dies in his throat.

"Alright, well. One thing at a time," He responds, "C'mon, let's get you out of here. Come on." He and Bobby each take a side and start pulling him towards the exit. Cas, however, had other ideas and forces them to stop.

"I mean it, Dean."

There's earnestness, a sort of raw honesty, in his voice that makes Dean stop and look at him. _This_ is the man he knew. Not the self-righteous asshole who betrayed everything they'd ever worked to create. But one moment of repentance is not going to make up for the suffering he caused.

"Okay. Alright, but let's go find Sam. Okay?" Dean says.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Cas's head lolls forward and drops, deadweight. It's everything Dean and Bobby can do not to let him slump to the floor.

"Cas?" Dean demands. His hand flies up to hover over his chest in case he still needs help stabilizing himself. Cas shakes his head and reaches to push Dean out of the way.

"I'm alright," he chokes out "Don't worry. Expelling the leviathans required more energy than I was—" He's interrupted by suddenly slumping over again. Dean swears and turns so he can grab both of the smaller man's shoulders and hold him up, effectively pushing Bobby away at the same time. Cas makes a quiet noise—of gratitude? Pain? He's not sure—and grips loosely at Dean's elbow.

"I'm al—"

"If you say that you're alright, Cas, I swear to God I will give you a reason to not be alright," Dean interrupts, hoping his fear is covered by the biting remark. Because although his every instinct is screaming for him to find Sam, he can't _not_ be worried about Castiel, who looks far paler than an Angel of the Lord has any right to be. _Priorities, Dean,_ he reminds himself, _Priorities._ As gently as he can, Dean lowers him to the ground. His hands remain clenched around Cas's shoulders.

"I'm going to be right back," he says, "I'm gonna go grab Sammy. Bobby'll stay here with you and when we get back, we're all gonna go back to his house and… figure this out, okay?" He glances up at Bobby to make sure the plan is okay with him too. Bobby nods tersely and kneels to take over his place of supporting Cas. He stands up and heads toward the room where Sam disappeared into, but before he goes into the hallway, he hesitates and looks back at the two men on the floor. Bobby glances up and catches Dean watching.

"Go on and get your brother. We'll be fine." He waves his hand and busies himself with keeping Cas upright. Dean gives a brief nod and head down the hall, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He tells himself that there's literally no reason that Sam wouldn't be okay, but it doesn't untwist the knot that is his gut.

The walk through the hall takes far longer than he'd wish, the quick click of his boots matching the pounding of his heart. When he rounds the corner and the supply closet comes into view, his breath catches, and he darts forward to the doorway.

Glass crunches under his boots as he steps in.

"Fuck." He doesn't mean to speak aloud and startles himself. Louder and more vehemently, he repeats himself, "Fuck."

One of the shelves is tipped over, forming a triangle with another shelf and blocking off most of the room. Anything and everything that was previous placed on it was smashed and scattered across the floor. It may have been the only shelf knocked over, but the others all sustained damage from the battle or tornado or _whatever_ had essentially destroyed the room. Even the small window near the entrance had not escaped: it appears as if someone had thrown something heavy through and destroyed it. Dean carefully steps as far as he could into the room. He squats so he could see under the tipped shelf, half-expecting to find his brothers prone body squished underneath it. Instead, nothing. A strange combination of relief and dread swell in his chest.

"Sammy?" He croaks, and then louder: "Sam?"

He expects the silence, but that doesn't ease any of his panic.

His boots slap against the stone floor as he runs back, back to where Bobby and Cas are still in the big room, Cas unsteadily rising to his feet. He doesn't even so much as look at them, even as they both call out his name: Cas's voice hesitant and quiet and Bobby's just straight worried. He holds up his hand to silence them. There's not enough time for their respective guilt and concern, because this was what he was waiting for. The world's big laugh in his face, the goddamn metaphorical rug pulled out from under his feet, because God knows he can't protect both Cas and Sam.

He pulls his phone out of pocket and dials Sam's number. The silence in the room feels heavy as he listens to it ring.

"You've reached Sam Winches—"

"Damn it." He snaps the phone shut.

"What's going on?" Bobby ventures.

"I don't know," Dean says, "Sam wasn't in the room." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cas's face sink.

"Well, the boy couldn't have gone far," Bobby says gruffly, "All we've got to do is—" But Dean isn't listening anymore. Even if Sam was hurt or collapsed somewhere in here, they should've been able to hear his phone ringing. A terrible idea strikes him.

Dean darts past them and through the big wooden doors. He _should_ see Bobby's truck under the tree across the clearing, but instead there's nothing. With the truck gone, that means Sam or Sam and whoever kidnapped him could be anywhere.

"Son of a bitch," he swears and turns back into the room. "Cas, I'm gonna need you to get up to full power sooner than later. Cas looks dismayed from where he's sitting on the floor.

"Sam still has the enochian branded on his ribs. Even if these were normal circumstances, I would be forced to employ a guess and check method to locate him."

"I _know!_" He shouts. Cas flinches and Dean adjusts his volume. "I know. I need you to get me to Bobby's house. I need a car." He can see the argument bubbling up on Bobby's face, but he shoots him a look and Bobby closes his mouth. Dean lets out a shuddery sigh that reverberates throughout his body and goes to kneel in front of Cas.

"I need to get to Sam, you understand that, right? My brother's out somewhere and he's not answering his phone, which is never a good sign. So pull together whatever juice you have left and get me to Bobby's house." Cas stares at him, his blue eyes unfathomable.

"Okay," he says and extends both his hands, one hovering over Dean's forehead. He glances over at Bobby to give him a look until he comes and squats next to the other two. Cas wrenches his eyes shut, steeling himself for the transport.

There is a brilliant flash of light and they are in Bobby's living room. Cas elicits an undignified noise and collapses onto the carpet. Dean feels a flashing stab of guilt, but Bobby is there to catch him and _Sam_, he needs to find Sam.

"Sammy and I'll be back in a half hour max, okay?" He barely spares the men on the floor a glance before he runs out and the door slams behind him.

When Castiel awakes, it takes him a moment to decipher where he is. _Bobby's couch_, he realizes. He sits up to survey his surroundings.

"Didn't think angels were much for power naps," Bobby muses from the kitchen.

"We're not," he responds, working his way to his feet and finding—much to his satisfaction—they're not as wobbly as he thought they would be, "These were special circumstances." It sounds like Bobby is laughing the next room over.

"You can say that again."

"That would be redundant," Castiel mutters and wobbles his way towards his voice. He finds Bobby sitting at his kitchen table sipping alcohol out of an almost certainly dirty glass. He takes the seat opposite him. He doesn't notice the missing presence immediately, but when he does, he feels ridiculous and more than a little thoughtless and looks around.

"Where's Dean?"

"Gone still. Probably will be for a while." Bobby takes another swig.

"He said a half an hour." Castiel looks at the flashing clock on the microwave that reads 9:52 AM. "Unless your clock is gravely mistaken, it has been long past that." Bobby snorts.

"Nah, that's right." He squints at it suspiciously. "For the most part, anyways. You didn't seriously think Dean'd be back by now, did you?" He doesn't answer the question, because, if he was being honest with himself, yes. He had thought that, or at the very least, hoped it very much. Instead, he rose from the table.

"I should find him."

"Woah, woah. Settle down there!" Bobby reaches over and grabs Castiel's wrist to drag him back into the chair. "Let's not make any stupid decisions."

"But—"

"You just woke up and you still look like you got hit by a truck. You have no idea where _either_ of the boys are, so what exactly is your brilliant plan?" He hesitates and grimaces. "Besides, even if you were to catch up with them, neither of them are exactly part of the 'Castiel fan club' right now. " He slumps into his chair, struck by the truth in the older man's words. He doesn't want to admit that he's entirely useless at this moment, but it's unavoidable.

"So I'm supposed to wait for him to return?" Cas asks. Bobby's smile is not a nice one.

"It's tough, ain't it?" He says, "Having to wait around, not knowing if they're dead or alive and not being able to do a damn thing about it. You could try calling them, but I wouldn't. I've been trying every once in a while and it's almost worse, listening to the dial tone." There's a sort of bitterness in his tone that reminds Castiel that Bobby has been doing this—this, this waiting game—for years. He's not sure if he could handle it himself.

"What do you do instead?" When Bobby raises his eyebrow, he clarifies, "Instead of focusing on the worry." Bobby lifts his glass in the air.

"You're watching it. You want some?" Castiel shakes his head vehemently. He doesn't handle his alcohol well, and he needs to be ready in case Dean calls.

The silence settles. Bobby drinks. Castiel laces and unlaces his hands. Bobby refills his drink. Castiel counts seconds in his head. Bobby excuses himself to use the bathroom. Castiel stares at the clock and hopes that it's running fast.

It's only 10:13.

When Bobby returns, Castiel is pacing: an unfortunate habit he picked up from Dean. Bobby hovers in the doorway until Castiel swings around and glares. He's not trying to glare _at_ Bobby, and he hopes that he realizes he's just glaring at the general situation.

"How long will this take?" His voice sounds gravely even to his own ear. "Why aren't they back yet?" Bobby clucks his tongue sympathetically.

"I'm gonna break this to you in the nicest way I know how," he says, "There's no way Dean will be back any time soon. Maybe tonight at the earliest."

"But he said—"

"And you believed him?"

"Well, I—"

"Then you're a damn fool," Bobby says fiercely, "Dean won't come back until he's absolutely sure that he can't find his brother. And we both know he ain't finding Sam." Suddenly, Castiel feels hollow and his knees, weak. He needs to sit down.

"This is my fault," he says. When Bobby sees the look on the angels face, his eyes soften marginally.

"Maybe, maybe not," he responds, and pushes himself upright so he's no longer leaning against the doorway. "We don't know what happened to Sam in there. I expect we'll find out soon enough. But when Dean gets back, he's going to be a mess. Probably won't bother to eat anything and'll come back starving, the moron." The insult sounds like a term of endearment from him, Cas notices. Bobby walks to the counter and pulls down a cookbook from his shelf, looks at it, and grins at Castiel.

"What?" He demands, prickling at the smile.

"You ever peel potatoes before?"

"I've never had the occasion to," Castiel responds, mildly confused.

"Well, now you do." He tilts his head to beckon the angel. "C'mon."

Bobby was wrong. When Dean gets back at 1:36 the next morning, he isn't a mess.

He's furious.


	3. Six Days Earlier

_Six Days Earlier_

By midnight, Bobby has not only taught Cas to peel potatoes, but somehow also managed to instill the basics of gun cleaning and attempted to explain poker to him. However, card games were clearly not a standard angelic skill. Had they actually been playing for money instead of spare buttons, Cas would still owe him money long after the hunter croaked.

"Alright, I'm done for the night." He stands up from the table and lifts his hat to scratch his head. Cas's furrowed brow relaxed a bit when he glances from Bobby to his hand and back again.

"Are you sure?" He asks. "I still have buttons left." He looks down at the small pile that Bobby had loaned him so they could continue to play.

"The games not supposed to end when you lose everything." Bobby chuckles, "Do me a favor and never go to Vegas." Cas's forehead creases again, but he's not really sure what confused Cas this time, and he's too tired figure it out _and _explain it, so he just walks into his living room and drops on the couch.

"Now what?"

He looks up to see Cas standing expectantly in the doorway. With a smile, he picks up a remote and turns on the TV.

"That's enough human lessons for the day," he says, "I'm gonna sit here and watch bad TV and maybe get some rest." Cas nods and sits in the armchair.

"I'll wait here then," he says, as if that's the only logical thing to do. Bobby raises an eyebrow.

"You sure, boy? As long as you don't break anything, you're free to do whatever."

"I'd prefer to be ready in case Dean returns while you're sleeping," he responds and folds his hands in his lap. When he sees Bobby's look, he adds, "It's alright. I don't mind keeping watch."

"If you say so," Bobby says warily and puts his hands behind his head, "But I'm not sure how much I like the idea of you watching me sleep." Cas gives him a strange smile that he's not sure he wants to understand.

When Cas sits up straighter and rasps, "Dean's here", Bobby's half asleep, barely paying attention to the infomercial blaring on the television. Sure enough, he can hear the roar of the Impala over the soft flutter of feathers as Cas disappears. He rises to his feet, his muscles loudly protesting the movement. With a sigh, he shuts that out and shuffles to his front porch. Even before he can get the door open, he can hear voices.

"I'm just—" Cas starts.

"Save it," interrupts Dean. Bobby really can't help the relief coursing through him. Or the disappointment, either. He _knew_ there was no way that both boys would be coming back to him tonight. But he had clung to the ridiculous hope that by this time Sam would be stepping out of the car, laughing at their worried faces.

Instead there was Dean alone, back rigid and eyes steely.

He catches Bobby's eye, and starts walking towards him. Castiel hovers over Dean's shoulders, blatantly ignoring the "shut up and leave me alone" vibes rolling off of Dean. It's enough to make Bobby want to shake the angel. _Doesn't the idjit know he's begging for a fight?_

"I want to—"

"Bobby," Dean cuts off Cas again, "I need your help." However, Cas isn't accepting Dean's refusal and reaches out to grab his arm. Dean easily shakes him off, but he whips around to face Cas. Bobby can't see his expression, but it's enough to make Cas falter.

"For Christ's sake, what is so goddamned important that it can't wait?" He demands.

"I need to apologize. It's my fault. I know it's hardly an excuse, but I assure you, I never meant for anything like this to happen to you or Sam. Because of my pride and my foolishness, your brother's gone and—"

Dean's arm snaps back and before Bobby can yell out a warning, he's slamming it forward into Cas.

He just crumples to the ground. He doesn't make any move to protect himself, and Bobby knows full well if he had wanted to stop the blow, Dean would have ended up with a broken hand. Instead, he just looks hollow and only the slightest bit afraid as Dean grabs his collar and drags him back to his feet. Dean uses every additional height he has on the angel to hoist him up so he has to stretch to keep standing.

"Sam is not _gone_," he says, and Bobby figures now is as good of a time as any to intervene before this gets out of control, "And if you ever say that about him again, I will whoop your heavenly ass into next week." He shakes him. "Do you hear me?" Cas's shoulders slump as he opens his mouth to respond, and Bobby has a terrible feeling that another apology is going to slip out.

"Son," he says to Dean as he walks towards them, "Let him go."

"Sam isn't gone," he repeats, this time to Bobby.

"Instead of beating each other up about it, maybe we should come up with a plan to find him? Getting upset isn't going to get him back home any faster," he snaps. Dean looks between Bobby and Cas before relaxing his fists

"Fine." He turns on his heel and stalks into the house, leaving Cas and Bobby staring after him.

"I didn't mean to upset him," Cas says.

"I know." Bobby claps a hand on his shoulder. "I know."

A few hours later, after Dean had finally been coaxed into taking a shower and eating something, Bobby can hear muffled noises coming from the kitchen. He hesitates before the doorway. A chair squeals against the floor and boots clomp as someone—Dean?—walks across the kitchen. There's a squeak and the rush of water as the sink is switched on.

"What?" Dean snaps and the water turns off.

"I didn't speak." Castiel, judging by the gravel of the voice.

"Well, you're staring at me like you've got something to say, so come on." There is a heavy silence.

"You won't let me apologize," Cas says finally.

"No," Dean responds, "I won't." The fridge opens and closes and silverware clinks. A chair groans as someone sinks down into it.

"Why?" He asks.

"See that," Dean says, his voice muffled as if it was filled with food, "that is exactly why I don't want to deal with this."

"I don't understand."

"You're sorry for so damn much, Cas. Saying sorry is for drinking someone else's beer or losing their favorite lighter. You can't expect to 'sorry' away becoming _God._"

"But it's important to—" He's interrupted by the clang of silverware against a plate and the clatter of a chair falling to the floor.

"No, it's actually _not _important," Dean barks, "You know what's really important? Finding my brother. Dealing with _your mess_. Not wallowing in this bullshit woe-is-me pity party. You do realize that every second we spend dicking around here; Sam is God-knows-where dealing with God-knows-what. Do you understand me?"

There's a heavy sigh, and then quietly, but no less fiercely: "I don't have _time_ for your guilt, Cas."

"I understand." Bobby hadn't thought it possible, but Cas's flat voice sounded less emotive than usual.

"Do you?" Dean demands and it sounds like he's ramping up to start yelling again, so Bobby realizes he should probably intervene. He walks into the doorway and clears his throat.

Dean is standing at the table, his hands gripping the wood so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. His head snaps up at Bobby's entrance, and the scowl on his face is enough to make even him feel unsettled. He feels a surge of pity for Cas, who's standing with his shoulders hunched over in the corner. With considerable effort, Dean relaxes himself, but he won't meet Bobby's eyes.

"I'm going back to the hospital. See if I can find anything." Castiel straightens.

"I'll take you," he says. Dean looks surprised, as if the idea had never occurred to him. Cas bristles before anyone can even say anything, preparing himself for an argument, but Dean just nods and says, "Fine." He crosses the room and before anyone can even utter a "good-bye" or "good luck", the boys are gone and Bobby is alone.

The waiting game begins again.

"What are we looking for?" Cas asks. Dean doesn't so much as tilt his head over his shoulder when he talks.

"Anything out of the ordinary." He hesitates. "Sulfur, maybe." Cas privately thinks that he would have been able to tell if there had been a demon present. Even now, his mind was still fragile and hypersensitive from the souls crowding inside, and it's been more than 24 hours. But that isn't what Dean needs to hear right now, so he holds back the comment.

Dean is already stepping over the threshold into the supply closet. Cas marvels at the visible shift in his body language. This is a hunt now. He has something to do instead of worry, and Cas admires his ability to push away his fear and anger to focus on the task at hand. Silently, he follows suit.

He had known the room would be in disarray, but he had underestimated the pure futility of searching. With all the containers of various supernatural substances littering the floor, it was impossible to tell what had been there before the attack.

As Dean rummages around, ducking under shelves and inspecting every inch of the area, Castiel moves to the window and cranes his neck. It's small, certainly, but Sam has an unsettling knack for squeezing through spaces that he would've thought impossible for a man of his size.

"Dean," he calls. There's a thump and a quiet swear. He turns to see Dean moving under a shelf and rubbing a spot on his head.

"What is it?" He asks.

"The window." Castiel points at it. "Sam might have left through it." Dean's eyes narrow.

"Okay," he says finally, "Give me a boost."

"A boost?" Cas parrots. Dean laces his fingers together and nods for Cas to mimic him. When he does, Dean steps into his hands. Cas hoists him up so he can clutch at the windowsill and scramble through. Dean stands and surveys the surrounding area, his boots trampling the area the grass. The moment feels heavy until Dean swings his legs through the window and slips back down, landing with an ungraceful thud.

"There's nothing," he says bitterly. "Take me back."

"Where'd you look?" Bobby asks gruffly.

"Around." Dean makes a vague hand gesture. "Anywhere I could."

"And?"

"What do you think?" Dean throws up his arms. "I haven't found jack shit!"

"No hint of where he might be?"

Dean levels a steady scowl at Bobby.

"I wouldn't be here if there was."

Bobby nods slowly, sparing a sidelong glance for Castiel. Cas is trying not to let his apprehension show, but if the concerned expression that Bobby flashes him is any indication, he's not fooling anyone.

"Where would Sam go?" Bobby asks.

"Sam wouldn't just leave," Dean replies stubbornly.

"I get that," Bobby says, impatience starting to leak into his voice, "But he ain't here, is he? So if he wasn't with you, where would he be?" Dean has to think about the question. Castiel can't come up with a place that would hold any gravity for Sam either. Exempting their brief fights, Sam was where Dean was. It had always been that simple.

"California." Dean stares at his hands when he speaks. "Sam hasn't set down roots anywhere ever, except for at Stanford."

"Okay, fine. Good." Bobby adjusts the dirty hat on his head. "That's settled then."

"You want us to go to California?" Dean says incredulously.

"What else are you going to do?" Bobby demands, "I'm not going to let you stay here and mope. You'll make me nervous and I can't deal with you being under foot all the time."

"Come here, Dean." Cas raises two fingers.

"Wait. _If_ Sammy's at Stanford—and I'm still not sure about that—kids still the slowest driver on the West Coast. We could overtake him, even with his massive head start."

"Then why are you still here?" Bobby asks. "Get going!"

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving!" Dean replies, "Jesus. We'll be back with Sam." Dean is already halfway out the door, so he doesn't see the uncertainty and fear in the crease of Bobby's brow. But Cas does.

"Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," Bobby warns.

"I'll do what I can," Cas promises quietly and turns to leave.

The drive to Stanford can't be made in one day, no matter how much Dean blatantly disregards the speed limit. As the clock ticks closer and closer to midnight, Castiel tries to hide his panic as Dean swerves over the center line again by digging his nails into his coat. He's almost positive Dean would notice nail marks in the upholstery of his precious car.

"Maybe we should stop for the night," he says for the fourth time in the past hour.

"I'm fine," Dean replies, just as he had before, although he sounds exponentially more annoyed each time.

"Sam will have to rest too," he reminds him quietly. Dean slams his hand against the steering wheel and Cas jolts away from the noise.

"Damn it," he swears, "We don't know that." Castiel shifts uncomfortably in the passenger's seat. He had tried to sit in the backseat, where he was used to, but when Dean got in the driver's seat and saw Cas in the rearview mirror, he had promptly called him a dumbass and told him to sit in the front. He nearly drops the issue of stopping for rest, but he remembers his promise to Bobby.

"You're no use to your brother in a car accident." The glare that Dean shoots him sends a chill down Castiel's spine.

"You know what?" With a violent jerk, Dean pulls over the car and puts it into park. "Fine. Fuck it. Wake me up in four hours." He swings himself into the backseat and turns so his back faces Castiel. Now, with Dean unable to see him, he turns so he can watch him.

Castiel had told Dean once that he wasn't there to perch on his shoulder. But now, watching his breathing slow and the tenseness work its way out of his back, he feels as if he needs to. Castiel will take care of Dean as long as he will let him or until he fixes this mistake, whichever comes first.

Castiel turns and watches the minutes on the clock crawl forward.


End file.
